![]() Vegetarians won’t feel neglected their options are never obvious. The old ways of a major ingredient bolstered by minor accompaniments has been abandoned to a new musicality where every element carries more or less equal weight. Their menus are fertile, nourishing, plugged into the markets and fashionable without being faddy. Jackson, grandson of Arabella (see Bellamy’s) and the late Mark Boxer, has been fortunate in his culinary evolution here in having Andrew Clarke - soon to open duck-devoted Bastien - as chef-director and gifted Drew Snaith at his elbow. It is where young blade Jackson Boxer runs his candelabra-lit, ground-floor restaurant and bar with access to some of the atmospheric rooms for private parties. If anywhere could redeem the urban blight of the developments in Vauxhall Cross, it is the Georgian house now fittingly occupied by architectural salvage company Lassco. An evening of cabaret at Crazy Coqs across the hall followed by dinner is one of London’s unbeatable treats. ![]() Dishes of the day make me hope it’s Monday for that quintessential French assembly, poulet au curry. I choose the prix-fixe menu at £12.75 for three courses, not because I am a cheapskate but because I like carottes rapées, steak haché and gâteau Opera. After five years of business, ridiculously reasonable prices hold. Marble columns, brass rails, mirrors and gilt decorate a vast hall where tables have salmon-pink cloths and napkins. Here is the meat and drink of democracy inspired by Bouillon Chartier in Paris. But it is Brasserie Zédel, just off Piccadilly Circus and conceived by Corbin and King, that touches my heart. The peace, space and tartes flambées at Bellanger are a boon, and I wouldn’t stay anywhere in London other than The Beaumont. At Fischer’s the mittel-European café concept has found its ideal address. Consider squid ink flatbread topped with an egg yolk literally - and silently - glittering. More decorous assemblies are also offered. If you get nervous around offal, cunning accoutrements with the meats and the clout of chilli will dispel that. For what I describe generically as pimped-up lahmacun, one of the breads incorporating potato and spelt flour, is inspired by San Francisco’s Tartine Bakery. He is well travelled, soaking up influences, stratagems and spices like a wily sponge. Chef/patron Lee Tiernan, who fronts the black, wood-fired, iron-clad metal oven decorated with tributes to Kiss, worked for 10 years at St John, finishing as head chef at St John Bread & Wine in Spitalfields. Forget talking, start drinking cocktails. It then occurred to me that the relentless heavy-metal that prohibits conversation actually works to balance the smack of roaring flavours and deafening colours. One BAM review remarked prissily that you can’t adjust the volume on your palate. The Harts import their own manzanilla, which is a good way to start as you mean to go on. Sparkling, pristine fish can be combined with gnarly offal and grills of the day and bedded down in the basics such as tortilla and pan con tomate, which are notably carefully constructed. The venues are slickly kitted out and the dance of service skilfully choreographed. I don’t observe queues shortening outside the three outlets, my favourite being Drury Lane because the wait is often more merciful and it is perfect for before and after theatre, ballet and movies. Her departure to do her own thing - fair enough after 14 years with the Harts - will, I believe, not leave customers short-changed. Bilbao-born chef Nieves Barragán Mohacho established the rigorously authentic style and introduced regional culinary tropes not seen before in London. Still true.Īpparently inspired by Barcelona’s Cal Pep, these tapas bars are the creation of Hart Brothers Sam & Eddie, in whose domain are also Quo Vadis & El Pastor. There isn’t a better description than that by Bruce Yardley in my Standard restaurant guide of 1996: “a bizarre assortment which looks as if picked up at auction following the death of a rich crank, with surprisingly grand bottles available at bargain prices”. The drinks list, plus extra bottles on the blackboard, continues to delight and demand exploration. Cooking keeps pace with the evolving way we like to eat but is never egregiously clever-clogs. Nothing much has changed in the past 30-odd years. But make a booking & “membership” is granted by your name scribbled on the white paper tablecloth - next to a candle in a bottle. As happens in such places, a clientele of regulars clubbily coalesced. Opened in 1986 by the eponymous print dealer whose shop trades next door, the venue was quickly embraced as London’s riposte to a Parisian bistro. Once through the battered door of the early C18th terrace house you can breathe a sigh of relief: Soho’s soul remains untrammelled.
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